tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1851729891891296292016-04-05T06:03:35.794-05:00I slept with Keith Olbermann tooEmily Zolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00235829193346185448noreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-185172989189129629.post-19790923795677857972006-12-05T18:50:00.000-05:002006-12-06T15:04:58.767-05:00Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks<p class="MsoNormal">There's been a lot of talk these past few months about Keith Olbermann's bedroom manners and prowess, due to a report in the <a href="http://www.publicenemy.com/index.php?page=page5&item=4&amp;num=100">New York Post</a> about a "30-something Cuban hottie" who claims Mr. Olbermann wooed, glued, and dumped her, after some wine-related fumbling. This sordid tale differs so greatly from my own experience that I felt finally called upon to break my silence and relate the tale of my <span style="font-style: italic;">affaire de coeur </span>(and other organs) with the Last Honest Man in America (aside from Howard Stern).<br /><br />As was the case with <a href="http://celebrities.netscape.com/story/2006/10/10/olbermann-gets-low-ratings-in-bed">Ms. I-had-no-idea-that-people-read-blogs</a>, my relationship with Mr. Olbermann grew from an email friendship of several months' duration -- a romance of the intellect, if you will. We met in a "Flash Gordon vs. The Flash -- WHO WOULD WIN???" chat, and in the midst of that heated and important discussion, two likeminded individuals -- dare I say <i>soul mates</i>? -- found each other. Those first emails -- bold yet sensitive, intelligent yet with a certain slapstick element, serious and seriously sexy -- will forever stay with me.<br /><br />Our online relationship grew and blossomed, and eventually – inevitably, perhaps -- we agreed to meet. I flew to New York, where Keith had booked me a room at the W Hotel. We were to meet at seven for dinner. He called from the lobby at seven o’clock exactly to let me know he'd arrived, and when I asked if he'd like to come up he replied that he didn't want me to feel pressured, and would wait for me in the lobby. He urged me to take my time, and said that he was pleasantly occupied and in no rush -- just what any girl getting ready for a first date wants to hear. When I emerged from the elevator, he presented me with a bouquet of tulips (my favorite! How did he guess?) and told me that I looked “breathtaking, absolutely gorgeous.” I did, too. He then presented his arm, inquired “May I?” and escorted me to a waiting car. I’d told him that my favorite food is sushi, so he took me to a lovely restaurant called “Nobu,” where we feasted on the freshest, most succulent tuna and yellowtail I’ve had the pleasure of tasting. It goes without saying that he picked up the tab and left a more-than generous tip.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">After dinner, we were both in an amorous mood, and retired to my hotel room for a night of erotic adventure. It would be unseemly -- possibly even illegal -- to reveal what took place in that room, but suffice to say that the king-sized bed shifted several feet from its original placement, and it had been bolted to the floor. Keith satisfied me in every way imaginable -- sexually, intellectually, spiritually -- and managed to do so without ever disturbing his perfect coif. Several days later, with many tears shed by both, we were forced by work and social obligations to bid farewell to the unfettered pleasures of the boudoir, which we’d enjoyed with such animal abandon, and reenter the world. Phone numbers were exchanged, and the goodbye was as sweet as the hello, but the plane ticket was bought and paid for, and I had to go home.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Upon my arrival in Boston, I was greeted at my apartment with a host of tulips (<i style="">how did he know</i>?) and a letter so tender and yet so manly it made me weak with lust, just hours after we parted. He called me that night, and we spoke until all the batteries in the house were exhausted. The next day, a large box arrived at my door -- inside was a darling, floppy-eared puppy with a big, red bow around his pudgy little neck! All in all, I must say that Keith was a perfect gentleman in every way, and was generous with his time, his amorous attentions, and his emotions.<br /><o:p></o:p><br />Our email friendship continued, and there were more phone calls, but my job of delivering soccer balls to underprivileged, third-world orphans demands that I spend most of my time on the road, and eventually we lost touch. I did see Keith one more time, as I emerged from a Sporting Goods Distributors of America conference in Manhattan. He was helping an elderly blind woman cross the street, and speaking to her in a cheerful, reassuring manner. I considered calling out to him, but then thought the better of it -- why not let that perfect weekend stay pure and inviolate, a memory to cherish all my life? And so I let him go, and as I watched his taxi pull away there was so much I wanted to say to him. I wanted to tell him how much I appreciated his chivalry, his sexual accomplishment, his masculine scent, his perfect hair, his wry wit. I wanted to let him know that the brief time we spent together shaped me as a person, and as a woman. Keith, if you’re reading this, I hope you don’t disapprove of what I’ve written here. I know that you're a private man, but you belong to the world now, and the thinking women of this country deserve to know the truth about your bad self. Thank you for the good times, the flowers, the notes. And thank you also for the puppy. It was <i style="">delicious</i>.<span style=""> </span></p>Emily Zolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00235829193346185448noreply@blogger.com25